


Thicker Than Water

by afterandalasia



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alistair-Centric, Canon Compliant, Gen, Horror, Murder, Non-Consensual Vampire Turning, Self-Hatred, Sparklepires, Twilight Spitefic, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He pressed one hand to his chest, waiting for his heart to beat again.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Rewrite of the backstory of Alistair; canon-compliant. He never asked for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Water

He screamed until he tasted blood in his throat. But it still was not enough.  
  
Then it _stopped_ , his heart and the pain both at once, and clutching at his chest he screamed again. It felt wrong, different, and it took him a moment to realise that breathing in again did not help.  
  
 _I do not want power. I do not want immortality. I do not want to be king._  
  
His hands looked different in the torchlight, pale, scars gone. Like another person's hands. He pressed one hand to his chest, waiting for his heart to beat again.  
  
 _What am I? A revenant? Demon-spawn?_  
  
His hands did not shake, though he felt like they should. He did not breath, and yet there was no breathlessness. When he got to his feet, there was no sense of movement, just of change, instant and abrupt.  
  
There was pain in his throat. Worse than the rawness of screaming, like an open wound. He inhaled again, hoping that this time it would mean something, and in a flash his brain was full of _hot wet ready feed wet live **blood** -_  
  
His teeth sank into something, but screams did not matter compared to heartbeats, and the blows against him felt weak and distant when the pain in his throat was gone, the fear was gone, all that he needed was the moment, this, now, _blood_...  
  
Blood. Alastair recoiled, thrusting away the body in his hands and pushing himself backwards so fast that he struck the wall on the opposite side of the room. Bodies littered the floor, faces still twisted in death, necks and arms and thighs torn open to reveal their now almost-bloodless flesh. A few survivors huddled in the corner, weeping, one praying. The smell of blood mingled in the air with piss and shit and sweat and fear.  
  
What had he done? Raising a hand, Alastair found it covered with blood; blood was on his face, down his front, splattered at his feet. The room was a slaughterhouse.  
  
 _And I did this._  
  
He wanted to retch, but his body would not react; his head felt faint but he stood upright still. Clinging to the wall did not feel as if it would support him, simply as if it was there.  
  
A key clicked in the lock, and he snapped to a crouch, a growl issuing from his throat before the door had even been opened. When it did, his father stood framed in the doorway, and Alastair recoiled, trying to hide his bloodied face and murderer's hands from the eyes of his father.  
  
"He did it," his father whispered. There was reverence in the voice that made Alastair stop and look cautiously round. "He actually did it. You are... perfect."  
  
His father crossed towards him, even as Alastair backed away to the wall again. He could get no further away without reaching the pile of bodies that stared at him with their accusing eyes, and cowered as his father approached.  
  
One hand gently touched Alistair's face, the fervent madman's gleam bright in his father's eyes. "My perfect son."  
  
"What have you done?" It was meant to be a whisper, but turned into a hiss, sharp between his teeth. Alastair grabbed his father's arms, feeling too late that the flesh crushed like a ripe fruit beneath his hands, that bone snapped in his grip. His voice rose to a cry. "What have you done?"  
  
His father choked with pain, and Alastair thrust him away to clutch his hands back to his heartless chest again. His bloody hands clawed open his shirt, but his skin was not even warm to the touch. No... There was a cry, a thud, and Alastair looked up to see his father sprawled against the far wall, his neck bent impossibly.  
  
"Father?" He was at his father's side almost before he had thought to move, hand reaching tentatively out. "No- no!"  
  
He could see the still neck where there should have been a pulse, hear the silence where there should have been a heartbeat. Alastair sprang to his feet, should have staggered but found his feet unnaturally sure beneath him.  
  
"What have you done?"  
  
Words for a cooling corpse, words for himself. Words for the terrible figure that had bitten fire into his veins and left him alone to die.  
  
But not to die enough.  
  
Alastair did the only thing that was left. He turned -- and ran.

**Author's Note:**

> This is canon, taken from the Twilight Illustrated Guide. Alistair's father arranged for him to be turned (by the vampire Astaroth, real name George) as part of a plot intended to make Alistair King. Alistair was never warned, never consented, and was horrified by what he became.


End file.
